Mirrors in Amber
by Shu of the Wind
Summary: Modern AU. Morgana is starting to go mad when she finds the little bookshop in Caerleon. Not to mention the nephew of the owner. Mergana. Inspired by Tumblr's accio-goldentrio and Nyah86Production. COMPLETE!
1. Mirrors In Amber

**TRIGGER WARNING: **Depictions of self-harm. DO NOT READ if this will trigger you. Morgana is extremely confused, believes she's going insane, and basically is spiraling down a very dark path.

**NOTE: **'Emrys' is the Welsh version of the name 'Ambrose', which is why I'm using it here.

* * *

><p><strong>Mirrors in Amber<br>by Shu of the Wind**

Morgana shoots awake with a scream. She can't help it. Even though this is the twelfth night in a row, and she knows that Gwen must be well and truly sick of her by now, she can't help the cold sweats and the shaking and the images of fire that linger behind her eyes when she shoots awake and hides her face in her knees, struggling to remember how to breathe. She's almost positive that she's the worst roommate in the history of the university, and that Gwen has the patience of a saint to have tolerated her this long. If it had been Morgana, she would have filed for a room change months ago, or, at the very least, a psychiatric appointment for her schizo roommate who keeps waking up shrieking from nightmares she can't even remember. But Gwen is brilliant and kind and so very not Morgana, so she doesn't. She gets Morgana tea, and lets her cry into her shoulder, and Morgana feels awful because she doesn't deserve a friend like this. She really, really doesn't.

Tonight is a little different though, because there's an outline of a face she can barely remember. One she shouldn't remember. A voice whispers in her ear, but it's in a language she doesn't understand, and when Morgana finally calms down enough to reach for a notebook to write it down, the sounds slip away into the mists of dreams.

She tosses and turns for the rest of the night, and doesn't sleep.

She can't remember when the dreams started. Her first real memory – and her last memory of her mother – is of soft speech and late-night cocoa after she woke up crying from a nightmare of fire and blood and an old, old man who watched as she screamed. She'd been curled into the crook of her mother's arms, and Vivan had whispered in her ear, "_They're only dreams, my darling. Only dreams_." But her arms had tightened around Morgana in a way that, to a child, meant protection. To an adult, meant fear.

She'd never stopped dreaming. Nothing had ever stopped it. Nothing will, she thinks, as she pulls her sweater over her head and buttons her jeans. Gwen is gone; she has a morning lab that lasts from seven AM to twelve noon, and again Morgana feels so terribly guilty. _I kept her up for hours last night_. Nothing she's ever taken has ever worked. No sleep medication has stopped it; no syrup, no brain chemical inhibitor or brain chemical stimulator, no therapy, nothing. Her uncle had tried everything, and Morgana has tried more. There's nothing she can do except ride the dream out, and if she wakes screaming, then try to remember how to breathe.

She hasn't woken screaming in years before the last two weeks. Now it's every night, and it's driving her mad.

Her morning class goes appallingly – there's only so much astrophysics you can stand when you're half-asleep and running on coffee fumes, after all – so when Morgana heads to the school café for the third time in three hours to collect yet another cup of pure caffeine, she can't stand it anymore. She skives off mathematics, borrows Gwen's car (Gwen, of course, says yes, no matter how nervous she looks at the idea) and goes for a drive. Caerleon is a small town, built around Ealdor University; there's nothing much to see, and this late in the year, it's difficult to do anything more than be bombarded with the Christmas decorations. Morgana draws a breath and turns down Mercer Street, holding the steering wheel tight in her gloved hands.

She dreams, and her nightmares drive her to tears. They drive her to terror that carries with her in the waking world, and it's come to the point where she isn't sure what is real and what is not. Under her sleeves and long, fingerless gloves, the scars on her arms burn, and Morgana squeezes the wheel even tighter. The worlds – her worlds, because which one is real? – are breaking down, and she's caught between them, being wrenched apart like the baby in the story about Solomon. The real world and the dream world (she's no longer sure which is which) are ripping her apart between them, and there's nothing she can do to stop it.

She feels the tears start, and wipes them away before they can freeze against her skin.

She's never been to this part of Caerleon before, and the snow is stacking higher and higher on the sides of the roads. It's part of the shopping district, she's certain. Morgana pulls into one of the nearest parking spaces and lets out a long breath; she leans forward and rests her forehead on the steering wheel and begins to recite Russian verbs, her lips moving silently as she goes through the list in the back of her mind. _To walk. To run. To eat. To sleep. To dream._ No, not to dream. _To live. To speak. To remember._ It's only once she's gone through the entire list twice that she feels real enough to step out of the car, and face the cold.

It's the bookstore that attracts her eye. She can't say why – it's quiet and small, and there's no café attached but she's never liked cafés in bookstores anyway, they always end up noisy and distracting – but there's something in the unassuming Christmas lights wrapped around the door and the small stack of books, some old, some new, in the shop window. She only loves it more when the door clinks shut behind her and she realizes that not only is it small, but no one else is in here, aside from the old man sitting at the counter with his nose in a book. He glances at her and offers her a small smile behind his half-moon glasses before he turns and heads into the back to collect something, and Morgana is alone in the shop.

There are clocks everywhere, she realizes, as she wavers between history and science. Clocks and paintings and ticking things that are somehow reassuring even though they should be nagging on her nerves. It's less of a bookshop than an odds-and-ends boutique, and even then, 'boutique' would be stretching it. In the back, she sees a glint of metal, and realizes to her shock that someone's hung a sword on the wall. She runs her fingers over an old-fashioned clockwork toy, and then turns to the books. There isn't a single one that's been published in the last five years. She loves it immediately.

"May I help you?"

It's the old man, the one with the half-moon glasses and his copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ held close against his chest. As she watches, his fingers stroke the binding gently, as though he's reassuring himself that the book is still there, and she relaxes ever so slightly. "I'm fine, thank you."

"If you need any help, please let me know." He says, in a soft, formal voice, and retreats behind the counter again to read. He's returned with a mug of coffee, and Morgana wonders if there's a kitchen in the back room or if he lives on the second floor above the shop. If he does, it would be just like something out of a novel, and she's oddly enchanted with the idea.

"_It doesn't have to be like this_."

It's an echo from a dream. Morgana puts a hand to her temple, and lets out a long breath before heading to the history section and losing herself in tales of spies in the Great War.

That night, she still dreams, but she doesn't wake screaming. Instead, she lays and watches the ceiling and as the dawn light dapples over the posters Gwen has pasted to the roof, she decides to go back. Because really, there's no harm in a little Christmas shopping.

* * *

><p>It takes a week before she finally learns the name of the old man behind the counter – Jerry Martin, but his middle name is Gaius, and he's gone by it for as long as he or anyone else can remember. A few days later he invites her to have tea with him, and Morgana says yes. She learns that Gaius studied medicine; that he used to be the town doctor, but now he's been usurped by a younger man with fancier machines and he's content to run his bookstore. It's partially why the scientific section is so big; he's given up much of his own medical collection, something Morgana could never imagine doing with her astrophysics books, but it's something that doesn't seem to bother him in the least. He's studying herbs in his old age now, and when she asks he waxes near poetic about sage and pansies and foxglove and wolfsbane. Soon it's routine, and even through Christmas break – because she's not going home; her uncle Ethan's house isn't home – Morgana visits the bookstore every afternoon at around three to have a cup of tea. Eventually she persuades Gaius to let her help organize the books, and she cleans up a bit when she knows he isn't looking. As beautiful as this place is, the dust in the air is so thick just walking inside could induce an asthma attack.<p>

With the spring comes a new semester, and Gaius grumps at her sometimes for visiting the bookstore when she should be out having fun, but Morgana chides him and tells him that _this_ is fun. And then the old man pinks up a little bit, and gruffs away to make more tea, and Morgana smiles and tends the bookshelves that have been mixed up through Gaius's well-intentioned assistance.

The dreams keep coming, but there's something about the bookstore that calms them, makes them easier to handle. That, or she's finally breaking. She likes to think that it's the former.

They're coming through clearer now, too. She can almost see faces. She can almost hear names. On Gwen's recommendation, she starts to write every single detail she can remember down in a black notebook. She's not much of an artist, but she's good enough to sketch shadowy faces, so she draws those too, and soon they're as familiar to her as her own reflection. There's the bald king and his thin crown, and the corn-haired prince with his strong jawline and sharp blue eyes that gleam at her through the fogginess of dreams, and the loyal friend with curly hair that she thinks looks rather like Gwen if her profile is in the right light. It means that her worlds are becoming more meshed than other, but somehow she can't bring herself to care. It's not Gwen's doppelgänger's face that frightens her, anyway. No; it's the king, and the old, old man who watches her writhing in pain and in terror and does nothing to help her.

There's another face, too, and she feels like it should be the clearest, but instead it's nothing more than a shadow and a few words whispered in her ear in a language she can't understand. Sometimes she catches a glint of gold. Once, she reaches out to him, and he takes her hand as her lungs constrict and poison pounds through her veins. Morgana wakes up with the feeling that someone's holding her, even though there's no one in her bed but her, and the mixture of betrayal and comfort confuses her.

One morning Gaius catches her going through her dream notebook, sketching idly with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. He sees the scars, she knows he does, but all he says is, "That looks like a project," and waits for her to respond. Morgana bites her lip and shrugs.

"Just dreams."

She waits until he's turned away before she yanks her sleeves back down. She knows Gaius won't say anything, but it doesn't keep her from skipping a few visits. She claims too much homework. Morgana isn't sure, but she thinks Gaius knows she's lying.

It's a hailing afternoon in March when Gaius leaves a stack of books on the desk that she's taken over and says, "My nephew will be coming to stay with me in a few days."

She blinks up at him. Somehow, she's never imagined that Gaius had family. He's always at the bookshop, a widower, every aspect of his life before Mercer Street wrapped up in fog, just like her dreams. After a moment, she says, "Oh?" and collects the stack of books. "For how long?"

"Until the summer." A flicker of affection races over his old face, and for a second, Morgana is horrendously jealous of this boy she's never even met. "He's managed to get himself into trouble down in Cardiff. Nothing bad, really, but it'd do him good to come out here for a few months."

She can see him now – a surly teenager that will stomp through the bookshop and probably graffiti the walls of the train station. Morgana forces a smile onto her face. "That's wonderful, Gaius. What's his name?"

"Ambrose." He says. The name means nothing to her. She feels like it should. "And if he's anything like his mother, he'll be tripping over cracks in the floor. He's probably around your age, Morgana, maybe a year younger; he doesn't have the patience to be in university is all."

"I see." She plasters on another smile. "I'm looking forward to meeting him."

He sees right through her. She knows it. Gaius gives her a look, and then says, "If you want to start on the mythology section, that one's probably the worst. I keep meaning to get all those old books out of the attic and put them out for sale, but my back's been getting worse lately. I haven't been able to manage it."

Morgana has to process that – _he's letting me stay, he's not making me leave, even with his nephew coming _– before she beams. "All right."

She makes sure to kiss Gaius's cheek before she leaves that afternoon, and his laughter means more to her than anything her uncle has ever done.

Still, she's almost forgotten about Gaius's news when she finally meets him. Ambrose. She's teetering down the stairs with a heavy box of books when the hairs stand up on the back of her neck and someone – someone foreign – asks, "Do you need help with those?"

Morgana shrieks, and nearly drops the box. She would have dropped it, if it isn't for the fact that someone else grabs it from the other side, and holds it steady. His eyes are a vivid, brilliant blue, and something in her reacts as the boy – man – blinks at her in confusion. She knows this face from somewhere. She knows _him_from somewhere. She knows she does.

Something sparks, and the dreams spiral through her mind again. _Merlin_.

"What?" The boy says, and Morgana shakes her head fiercely a few times.

"Nothing. Just – hi. You're Gaius's nephew, aren't you?"

"Gaius?" He echoes, and his eyes are dancing with humor as he steals the box from her. "You mean Uncle Jerry?"

Morgana can't help it. She blushes pink. She's almost forgotten Gaius's real name. "Right. Um. Jerry." It tastes wrong on her tongue. "You're Ambrose."

"Well, that's what my mother calls me." He has a soft Cardiff lilt to his words, and despite being dressed all in black with a pentacle hung around his neck on a thin leather cord, she's never met anyone less assuming in her life. "Among other things. Depends on who you're talking to."

"I can take the box." Morgana says, but he shakes his head.

"Nah. I'm good. Where do you want it?"

He stands there with the box, watching her with a lifted eyebrow, and that he _definitely _inherited from Gaius, because the old man has looked at her that way so many times that she can't help a smile. It's only a small one, though. She doesn't like sharing her smiles. "Downstairs in the mythology section."

"Right." He smiles at her. "Nice to meet you, Morgana."

He's already vanished downstairs by the time she realizes she never gave him her name.

* * *

><p>"She doesn't remember."<p>

Morgana pauses outside the kitchen door, and her hand clenches reflexively against the wall when she hears Ambrose's voice. It's been two weeks since he came to Caerleon, and the dreams have been getting clearer every night. She can almost see faces now. She can feel a sword in her hand, not a foil like she uses in fencing but an _actual sword_; she whispers words she never understands, and watches as worlds burn. And always, always, always there's the old man with the robes and the staff, who watches her as she screams, and the king who leads her to the chopping block with tears running down his cheeks. The blonde-haired man is in a crown now. And the one that's always wrapped in mist, the one she feels like she should remember, just gets foggier every day.

"She doesn't remember." Ambrose says again, and for the first time since she met him two weeks ago he doesn't sound cheerful. He sounds….hurt, almost. Confused. "I don't think she remembers anything."

"Not all of us are prodigies at this, Mer – Amrbose." Gaius says, and it's gentle, but it's definitely a reprimand. Morgana holds very still. She's never been more thankful that she doesn't stomp up and down stairs. "The fact that you remembered so early is a miracle. You know that."

Ambrose makes a soft sound that could be classified as a grunt, she supposes, if it hadn't been for the fact that it sounded so…sad. "She called me Merlin, Gaius."

There's a long pause, and Morgana can _feel_ the agony in the air. There's hope there too, but mostly pain, and_oh my God, they have to be talking about me. _She'd thought she'd imagined that.

After a moment, Ambrose clears his throat. "We can't lose her again, Gaius. _I _can't lose her again."

"Ambrose—"

Something shatters on the floor, and Gaius groans. "That's good china, boy!"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry—" Something prickles at the back of her mind, and somehow, she knows precisely what's going to happen. She knows just what he's going to say, she can mouth it along with him, and something tears and burns inside her. "_Hálnes_."

"Are you mad?" Gaius hisses, and Ambrose squawks; a cup hits the sink, and the sink begins to run. "Don't do that in here!"

Ambrose goes back to apologizing, but Morgana can't hear anything else. There's only the word, pounding through her blood, and the tear inside her is bleeding, something working its way free, but she doesn't care, because whatever Ambrose said, she's only heard in dreams.

Morgana turns and runs back down the stairs, and this time she doesn't care if they hear her. Because all she can do is run, and hope they won't catch her.

* * *

><p><em>The one they call Emrys will walk in your shadow. He is your destiny….and he is your doom.<em>

Poison, burning down her throat. A sword clasped tight in her hand as she prepares to run him through. Words in the Old Language stinging on her lips as she throws her hand out, and the hate pulses through her so fierce and strong that it makes the world explode. And that old man watching her scream, but this time, when he turns, those blue, blue eyes pierce her, and the face is finally clear as the shadowy figure steps out of the shadows, and reaches for her.

Pain, hate, fear, glory, and Morgana wakes up with a gasp, staring at the ceiling above her bed, and tears pour down her cheeks.

_I'm finally going mad._

* * *

><p>She goes home for Easter break. She can't help it. She needs to get away from Caerleon, and if that means going to Uncle Ethan's, and suffering through living in Dublin when really all she wants to go is go home to Rhondda, and walk among the standing stones, then go to Dublin she will.<p>

Uncle Ethan is glad to see her. Morgana can't really say the same, but she goes through the motions – she kisses his cheek when he puts his arms around her and smiles and answers his questions and as soon as she can escape up to the attic, she does. The room she grew up in seems oddly empty, but she isn't surprised; everything of value, she's left at school. She doesn't want Ethan touching it. Ethan is her mother's brother, and even though she's never liked him, this is as much her home as any place.

She refuses to think of the bookshop on Mercer Lane as she unpacks her suitcase.

There are people coming to visit for Easter, Ethan tells her, when she sits down to dinner that night and pretends to eat. Her father's old friend from the military. He's into politics now, and for some reason Ethan won't shut up about him. He's bringing his son with him, too – "he's also on Easter break, you know, but he goes to Cambridge, brilliant lad, Uther talks the world of him" – and Morgana can only wonder how Ethan has never mentioned her father's old friend before as in the back of her mind, the tear that opened up when Ambrose spoke that one word rips wider.

When she dreams that night, the old crying king leads her to the chopping block, and as the axe descends, she screams, "_Only a madman hears the truth as treason_!"

When she wakes up, the vase at the end of her bed explodes, and Morgana curls around her pillows and trembles until dawn.

* * *

><p>Her world is still disintegrating, but it's moving faster now. When she wanders down the stairs on Easter morning to find the blonde-haired, blue-eyed warrior from her dreams sitting at the counter eating cornflakes, she doesn't even scream. He means her no harm, not according to her dreams; in fact, despite a prattish streak, he's almost likeable. He's been taking fencing almost as long as she has, and they're talking about tournaments when his father comes into the room, and Morgana drops her coffee cup onto the linoleum.<p>

The king stares back at her from across the kitchen table, and as Ethan bobs around them, asking questions she can't hear, Morgana clenches her fists and excuses herself.

_I should never have come home_.

She's mad. She knows it now, and there's no point in checking into a psychiatrist's office. She's mad enough to be committed. She should be in Bedlam. Her world is fragmenting around her, spiraling away into dreams, and she's ready to cry because she's only nineteen, she shouldn't be going this mad at only nineteen, she has so much she wants to do but she can't because she's as mad as an old witch from a fairy story, and there's nothing she can do about it. And unlike when she was fifteen and lonely, the razor doesn't help; she only cuts once before she realizes the blood is dancing on her arm, and Morgana stifles a scream before thrusting her wrist under the tap. Sometimes when Arthur crops up unexpectedly she thinks she sees him wrapped in metal – in chain mail, her history classes remind her – with a sword in his hand, but then she blinks and he's just in a rugby jersey asking if there's a pub nearby, because if he has to tolerate his father any longer he's going to scream.

"I'll take you there." Morgana says without thinking, because if she's losing her mind, she might as well get good and pissed because of it.

It's been a long time since she's visited the King's Arms. The last time she was here, it was her seventeenth birthday, and she came out of the night with a triskelion tramp stamp that Uncle Ethan _still_doesn't know about. Now she's two years older, and not a speck wiser; she orders a pint and two shots, and downs them without caring that she hasn't eaten at all today and she'll probably make herself sick. Arthur watches her do it with raised eyebrows, and then vanishes to find his own drinks, and despite the fact that she should be keeping an eye on him, Morgana doesn't have the energy to give a damn.

She takes another shot, and the dark-eyed Spaniard in the corner shifts a little, watching her. When she blinks, he's wearing armor, just like Arthur was earlier, and Morgana laughs because of _course_ he is, of _course _her hallucinations are getting worse while the alcohol is coursing through her blood. She's being ridiculous thinking _anything_ can numb her down now. She looks away from him. The air is close and hot and thick; it's like moving through foam. The alcohol burns in her throat and stomach. Morgana closes her eyes, watching her dreams play like an out of control black-and-white film, and figures in tunics and long dresses stare back at her from the mirror behind the bar. She's in one too. It's long and forest green, and the sleeves stretch down to the floor. When she looks down, though, it's gone, and she's in her torn jeans and the brown coat she stole from her first upperclassman boyfriend. She shrugs it off, and leaves it on the chair. She doesn't want any memories with her now.

She drinks, and dreams, and drinks again. When she turns around, Arthur has a curly-haired girl on his lap that looks like Gwen's twin in the dim light of the pub, and Morgana watches them lazily as the lights begin to dance around her, bobbing like hummingbirds. Once or twice she thinks they might be fairies, especially when one lands on her shoulder, bites her earlobe hard enough for her to yelp, and whispers _he's coming, he's coming, he's coming_. She blows it away, and wishes she were at a club instead. At least in a club the lights don't have teeth.

Morgana takes another shot and the room is spinning around her. When she leans forward to set down the shot glass, she nearly falls out of her chair. Arthur clasps her shoulder and helps her sit up straight, and he's laughing with his new tart about how she can't hold her alcohol, but Morgana ignores them; she wrenches away, and the movement makes her stomach roll. She's going to vomit, but she doesn't care, because she keeps seeing a crown on Arthur's head and a sword on his hip, and the girl beside him is wrong, because it's not Gwen and it should be. She waves him away, stumbling, and takes one of the empty tables, resting her head against the wall and closing her eyes and wishing for the world to end.

The voice echoes in her head. Soft, young, fragile._Morgana_.

"I'm mad." She moans it, and covers her face with her hands, rocking back and forth, back and forth. "I'm mad, I'm mad, I'm mad."

_Morgana._ A different voice. _Stay there, all right? We'll come and get you._

"I'm mad."

_You're not mad._

"I'm hearing voices in my head—"

_Well, that's obvious—_

"—and I'm seeing things and it _hurts_." Her chest hurts. Her head hurts. Oh, God, how her head hurts. "I just want it to be over."

"It will be." Ambrose says, and when she lifts her head from the table, he's sitting next to her, and Arthur is behind him looking concerned. Ambrose looks up at him, grins a little bit – "Evening, Arthur. Been a while." – and Arthur looks at him like he's crazy.

"You." Morgana says.

"Me." Ambrose says, and for a moment she sees him in the old world, in the dream world, and his hair is shorter then but his smile is just as sweet. He reaches forward and sets a hand to her forehead, and it's not her imagination when his eyes flare gold. "_Slǽp_, Morgana. Everything will be better when you wake up."

No it won't, she tries to say, because when I wake up, I'll still be mad, but darkness closes in on her, and the very last thing she sees are his very blue eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

This is a modern AU three-shot inspired by two GIFs on Tumblr bv absolutely amazing **accio-goldentrio**. She's brilliant, and her GIFs have infected me with plot bunnies. There's also a video by the fabulous **Nyah86Production** on Youtube: /watch?v=ZlAl_JN4KgM in order to see it.

Here are the GIFs:

shuofthewindDOTtumblrDOTcom/post/13604485755/accio-goldentrio-you-need-to-meet-her

shuofthewindDOTtumblrDOTcom/post/13549582981/accio-goldentrio-morgana-there-is-someone

And yes, before we even get the next chapter, I already know Mordred will be in it. I don't know how he'll show up, but I know he'll be there.


	2. A Place To Sleep

**A Place To Sleep  
>by Shu of the Wind<strong>

The light is shining across her face in obnoxious patches when she opens her eyes and moans. Her mouth tastes as though something has crawled in and died inside; looking anywhere near the window sends a railroad spike of pain through her head, and the instant she moves, her stomach rolls. She nearly doesn't make it to the in-suite restroom before she vomits, and the alcohol burns twice as bad coming up as it had going down, but at least the walls aren't dancing around her yet.

Even the thought of motion sets her off again. She has to stay in the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, for at least an hour before she can move. She doesn't bother looking at herself in the mirror; she steps right into the shower, and only realizes that she's still dressed after she turns on the water and lets it soak through to her skin. Someone had the decency to put her into pajamas, at least.

She hopes it wasn't Arthur.

Or Uther.

Or Ethan, God forbid.

All the men in her life can just go to hell.

It's some small mercy of some freakish god that she forgets about Ambrose until she gingerly feels her way back downstairs, and finds Arthur – obnoxiously healthy Arthur – having coffee with Ambrose. _Merlin,_her mind insists, but she ignores it. She only has a little while before her brain starts spitting up hallucinations again, and she wants to treasure it.

He looks just the same, with the pentacle around his neck and the black T-shirt; his jeans are black too, and they're maddeningly attractive on him. His eyes crinkle when he sees her, and he lifts his cup in a salute.

Arthur turns, and scoffs a bit at the sight of her, but the amusement in his face is mixed with pity in the lines around the corners of his mouth. "Rough night, gorgeous?"

She grunts, shoots him the bird, and wraps her bathrobe tighter around herself before heading to the sink. She desperately wants coffee, but she has a feeling that would be a very bad idea. "I can't remember most of it."

"Judging by the way you were drinking I'm not surprised." Arthur says, and she has to wonder how he managed to survive this long in life when he's so willing to say stupid things to pissed-off, hung-over madwomen. "You didn't do anything too crazy."

_Except imagine you._ She thinks, and watches Arthur over the top of her glass. She's been dreaming about Arthur since Christmas, and it's almost May. He's only here for two more days though, and for some reason she likes him. Trusts him even. She doesn't trust many people, but Arthur is one of them, and she's trusted him for –

_Bring back memories of when I used to beat you?_

_That never happened!_

Morgana presses her lips tight together, and looks away from Arthur to stare at the fridge. There's a photograph of her and Gwen there, at the beginning of the fall term. She hasn't spoken to Gwen in days. Her stomach twists into a knot.

"Good morning." Ambrose says, and she ignores him.

"Both of you can piss off." The last thing she needs is Arthur and Ambrose ganging up on her. Morgana swallows the water slowly, ignoring the way it makes her head pound, and then sets the glass under the tap again, refilling it. "What are you still doing here, Ambrose?"

"I took a bus here." He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and she has to clench her fist around the water glass to keep herself from throwing it at his head. "There's not one back to Caerleon until the day after tomorrow."

And of course Arthur like the good Boy Scout he is probably invited him to stay here. Morgana takes a deep breath, and drinks more water. Her head hurts too much right now to argue with anything at the moment, let alone handle the images her brain is spitting up at the sight of Ambrose. _Swords. Fire. Pain. Death. _She writhes and screams as the old man looks down at her, and in the real world, Morgana winces and presses her hand to her eyes. _Not with a hangover, damn you. Don't you dare start. My head already feels like an elephant's stepped on it, I don't need madness too._Not this morning.

"Morgana?" Ambrose asks, and something around her shifts. Morgana smacks his hand away before he even comes close to touching her, and they stare at each other in shock. Arthur watches with raised eyebrows.

"I'm fine." She snaps, and steps away from him. "Just…don't."

Ambrose's eyes turn sad. "Morgana."

"Stop it, Ambrose."

"We need to talk. Please."

Voices tremble in her mind.

_It doesn't have to be like this. We could find another way._

_There is no other way._

"I don't want to talk to you." She says, and bolts back up the stairs, locking the attic door behind her. Then she slides down to rest on the floor, her legs splayed painfully across the wood, and bites her knuckles to make sure no one will hear her cry.

* * *

><p>Outside, the world feels normal. Outside, <em>she<em> feels normal. Walking down the street, she's not a madwoman; she's just a woman, shopping, eying attractive men and wondering if she should pick up some more Windex before they run out. She heads back to Caerleon tomorrow, and damn her luck if she isn't taking the same bus and ferry route that Ambrose is. Morgana pushes her sunglasses up, ignoring the way her head is pounding, how sometimes out of the corner of her eye she sees flickers of motion of people who don't exist. Ethan had picked up a prescription of anti-psychotics for her before she even came to Dublin, on her request, and after she finally managed to get something down, Morgana had taken three of them in addition to some aspirin to kill her carry-over headache from yesterday.

She's going back to school tomorrow, going back to Caerleon tomorrow, and she's not sure she can take this for very much longer. Morgana clasps her wrist in one hand, watching a store clerk wipe out the inside of a boutique window, and pretends that she can't feel the pulse beating under her fingertips. Maybe she should just withdraw from school. Drop out. Gwen would sleep easier at night, at least.

But if she does drop out, where will she go? Not back to Ethan's, for certs. Just being here for Easter break has made everything worse. There's something about cities that make her dreams go wild; at least in Caerleon there was the bookshop, and the relative peace it brought.

But Ambrose…he makes things worse for her too. She can feel it. It's in the leap of her stomach whenever she sees him, that mixture of joy and terror, and the way she _knows_ him even though she's only met him half a dozen times, and they've only ever talked about books and old legends. The way she knows his kindness and his klutziness. The way she understands why he vanishes sometimes, heading for secrecy and quiet because he gets tired by spending too much time with people, even if he adores them with all his heart. The way that she knows that he'll do anything to protect his friends.

_Her throat closes up and she looks at him in horror, her hand going to her chest as she tries to remember how to breathe –_

Morgana shakes her head fiercely. The drugs are wearing off, maybe, or they never worked in the first place. Next to her, a man flicks his lighter and yelps when the flame flares up to more than six inches high; she turns and walks quickly away before she sees fairies coming out of it or something. She doesn't need to look weirder than she already does.

Her brain is throbbing again as she turns towards Grafton Street, ignoring the statue of Molly Malone and her wagon. People are shifting in crowds around her, most of them students like she is, free for the Easter holidays, and she winces as one of the girls nearby shrieks and tackles her boyfriend. Morgana can't help it; she tightens her grip on her purse and turns to head in the opposite direction. She's wandering at random as the world begins to spin, and _damn it_, she can't have an episode here. She _won't_. She bites her cheek so hard that she tastes blood, and drops down on the nearest bench, closing her eyes and clasping her hands together, almost in prayer. _Please no. Please no. Please no._

If she breathes, it'll go away. If she takes slow, deep, gasping breaths, and ignores the way the world is staring at her, then it'll go away. She's always been so good at lying to herself that she almost believes it, just for a second. She almost believes that it will. And then she feels the tear inside her rip wider, and she whimpers.

Fingers brush her temples. Morgana jerks away, or tries to, but in the instant before she breaks contact there's a beautiful cooling in her mind; the images dampen and disappear. She can't move for the longest moment, not until the boy pulls his hands away and he looks at her with bright blue eyes. They're not the same startling blue of Ambrose's eyes; they're foggier, mixed with grey. The boy – he can't be more than ten or twelve – pulls back. He lets his palm rest against her cheek, and it's everything she can do to keep herself from trembling. She knows him. Just like with Ambrose, she_knows_ him, but there's nothing but warmth for him. Her lips move around his name.

"Right," says Mordred, and his mouth quirks in the smallest of smiles. "But here I'm called Damian."

Damian. She's not sure if she likes it or not. He must be a hallucination, she thinks. Because there's no way a child – not _a _child, but _this _child, this very special, very precious child – is standing in front of her, talking to her, not like this. Morgana reaches forward and cups his face in her hands for a moment; the tears build. She brushes the scar behind his ear, gently, the remnant of when Arthur drove his sword into Mordred's skull –

_Damn it, stop thinking this way!_

The image is so vivid in her mind, though. "Mordred." She says again, and the tears spill over as he steps forward and wraps his arms around her, hiding his face in her shoulder. She clings to him, this living breathing boy in her arms, and even though logically she's certain she's hugging nothing more than air, it doesn't keep her from feeling better than she has in months.

After a moment, Damian cocks his head to the side, and his voice echoes again, though his lips don't move.

_Come with me_.

Wordlessly, she lets him take her hand and lead her away.

She's been through Grafton Street a thousand times; maybe more. It's her favorite escape from Ethan and his bitterness, when he waxes poetic about her mother or complains about her murder, even though all she ever did was dump Morgana on him and split after her boyfriend ditched her. But she's never been to this bit of Grafton Street before, a coffee shop in one of the side-alleys, and when Mordred – Damian – pushes open the door, she automatically pulls back.

_It's all right_, Mordred says without speaking, and gestures her forward. He waits until she steps inside before he pulls the door shut behind them, and despite her swirling stomach, the rich smell of coffee is almost as calming as the dust of the old bookshop.

_Stop thinking about that place_.

"Hi, Mum," Mordred says to the woman behind the counter – she has dark hair and the same blue-grey eyes as he does, but she looks much too old to be the mother of a boy as young as Mordred. Their eyes meet, and the woman studies Morgana carefully; her hand goes to a pentacle around her neck.

"Damian."

"She's all right." Mordred says, and clambers up onto one of the spinning chairs by the coffee bar. He looks at Morgana, and she copies him, anxiously. "She was broadcasting all over the neighborhood." _I thought it would be a good idea to bring her in before he found her_, he adds, silently, and both Morgana and Mordred's mother give him a very sharp glance.

"Who's he?"

"You and your ideas."

They speak at once, and then stare at each other. The woman grips the counter, and if Morgana isn't mistaken, she's using it to keep her own knees from buckling. She licks her lips. "You heard him?"

Morgana nods, and then adds, "But this is all a hallucination, so it doesn't particularly matter."

The woman slaps her. She slaps her _hard_, and her already bleeding mouth explodes with pain. Morgana swears, loudly. "_What the bloody hell was that_?"

"Wake up." The woman says, and her voice is suddenly very tired. "And stop the pity-party. How long has it been since you realized?"

"Realized what?"

Morgana covers her cheek with one hand, and stares at her. Next to her, Mordred's eyes are flicking from her to his mother to her again, and after a moment, he says, silently, _I don't think she has, yet._

"Oh, Lord." She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Where do you find them, Damian?"

Mordred lifts one shoulder in a mild shrug, and says nothing, silently or otherwise. After a long moment, Mordred's mother holds out a hand.

"I'm Violet. It's nice to meet you."

_Don't tell her your real name._

"Madison." Morgana lies, without a look at Mordred. The handshake is firm and swift and automatic as her mind reels. "Um…I'm sorry, I don't quite – realized what, exactly?"

"Here." Violet pulls a mug out from under the counter and begins to fix a coffee. Morgana's about to protest when Violet pierces her to the wall with a stare, and then adds, "How long have you been having dreams?"

"Who told you I had dreams?" Morgana responds, her fingers curling reflexively around the cup of coffee. Violet's added something to it, some spice that smells like nutmeg, and it's easing her headache brilliantly. She takes a tentative sip, and nearly melts. The woman's put chocolate in it too.

"You did." Morgana blinks. "You have Seeing blood, dear. If you can hear bloodlines like I can, it's like a scream."

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Her fingers clench around the mug. For some reason, her heart is pounding. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Whatever you think I am, you're….you're wrong. All right? I'm just…" She glances at Mordred – _Damian_, she tells herself firmly – and then looks back up at his mother. "I'm just…mad. That's all I am."

It's the first time she's said it aloud to anyone but herself. Morgana sips the coffee, and doesn't look at either of them. Violet sighs.

"I can understand how you would think that. I'm not going to push you, Madison. But…" She hesitates, and then reaches under the counter again; when she opens her hand, there's a bracelet resting on her palm. Morgana stares. "But it would be good if you wore this. Just for now. Keep it hidden."

"Why?"

"It'll help with your dreams."

Morgana glances at Mordred before she slides the bracelet onto her wrist. When she looks up again, Violet has another piece of jewelry, but this time, it's the same pentacle Ambrose wears, on a long thin chain that's designed to slide under her clothes.

"What does this do?" Morgana says wearily, taking it and clipping the necklace around her throat. "Ward off fairies?"

"Proves you're one of us." Violet says. "The necklace wouldn't appear for you if you didn't have the talent. Damian wouldn't have brought you here, either."

"Talent?"

"Magic."

Violet sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose, but Morgana can barely hear her over the sudden rushing in her ears. She must have misheard. Either that or she's finally, truly lost her mind, because she could swear she just heard Violet say _magic_. As though magic is _real_.

She wants to laugh, but the rip inside her is gleaming, and she can't make a sound.

"Violet, I was wondering – oh."

Ambrose. Ambrose bloody Martin is standing there, looking at her with enormous eyes, and Morgana is staring back at him and wondering just how much the world hates her. Mordred smiles, slips off the stool, and runs to him. "We found her, Emrys."

"I can see that." Ambrose says carefully, but he hugs Mordred back when the boy wraps his arms around his waist, and Morgana's whole world tilts. _Maybe it's not_me_ who's mad._ The universe seems to have a pretty whacked-out sense of humor. At least, when it comes to messing about with her life. He detaches himself from Mordred, and then adds, "Your uncle's looking for you."

Her hands clench into fists. "My uncle can go to hell."

Mordred and Ambrose – for some inexplicable reason – exchange a look that she can't interpret. For a second, she thinks she hears a voice, very far away; then Mordred looks at Morgana again, and says, _Emrys will take care of you, Morgana. You can trust him._

She can't help it. _Pain. Poison. Fear. Betrayal. _Images flash through her brain quick as bullets. Mordred gives her a secret smile.

_He's learned his lesson. _Those grey-blue eyes snap to Ambrose as he adds, _Haven't you, Emrys?_

"You're _all_ mad." She says, and stumbles off the stool. Mordred opens his mouth to speak, but Ambrose puts a hand on his shoulder, and he stays quiet. "You're all – magic isn't _real_. It doesn't exist. Just…stop this. Quit the ventriloquy. Joke's on me, I get it, now just…stop."

"Madison—" Violet begins, but Morgana shakes her head.

"No! What does it have to take for you people to _leave me alone_?"

She runs out of the shop. The pentacle necklace radiates warmth into her skin as she skids around the corner, running, just like she ran from the bookshop, only this time, she has nowhere to return to.

_Go after her, Emrys_. _Go after her, or it will turn out just the same and everything we've been working for will be for nothing._

The words echo in her mind. Mordred. He's making sure she can hear him, and she doesn't know why, but she knows that Ambrose is coming after her now, and that makes her run faster, and she only realizes that she left her purse in the coffee shop when she skids into St. Stephen's Park and angles for the arch. For some reason, she can't bring herself to care.

_If I'd known I'd be running today, I would have worn better shoes._ Her sandals are only slowing her up. She hops on one foot, pulling one off first, and then the other, and her bare feet slap against the pavement as she bolts again. Behind her, she hears a shout – "Morgana!" – but she doesn't stop. There's no way she's going to stop.

_Never stop, never stop, never stop._

"_Morgana_!"

The stone and concrete scrapes at her feet; she shifts, from sidewalk to grass, and ducks in among the trees. St. Stephen's is huge. She'll lose him eventually, but until then she has to keep running. She bursts out from the trees again, and Morgana ducks behind the Fusiliers arch, her nails digging into the stone as she struggles to remember how to breathe.

There's a ripple. The tear inside her chest breaks wider. She can almost _feel _the word ghost against her skin when he says it, and she whimpers at the sound of it. "_Ábeþecian_."

Something tickles the back of her neck, makes the hair on her arms rise to attention, and Morgana wonders if it's possible to sob and scream at the same time, because if it is, then that's what she does. She bolts again, and when she hits the trees, something sharp pierces the arch of her foot. She falls with a cry, tries to get up, but her leg screams; it's all she can do to pull herself back into the bushes and tuck out of sight as much as she can.

She doesn't realize the trees are curling in around her until the branches touch her cheeks. And then she screams, and buries her face in her knees.

"_Cól_."

The wood peels away from her. A tentative hand brushes against her shoulder. She screams again, and finally the tear turns into a gleaming beacon, and Ambrose is thrown away from her. She can _feel_ the vibrations through the dirt when he hits the nearest tree, and the branches wrap around him, tighter, tighter, tighter, and terror makes her throat close up.

"_Merlin_!"

Wrapped up in tree branches, a bleeding cut on his cheek from a whipping twig, squashed within an inch of his life, Merlin smiles at her. "That's my name."

This time she doesn't miss it when he sets his palm against the trunk, and whispers something in another language. _The Old Language_. The tree creaks, and moans, and then he slips through the sudden gap in the branches to land on the ground, coughing and hacking. Morgana crawls to him, and when she sets her palm to his cheek, it feels completely natural. Normal. "You're okay?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure."

"I'm fine." He says, but he's still struggling to take a breath. He coughs, but his mouth is quirking a little bit, into a small smile. "I forgot – how – damn good you are at running."

She smacks him. "That tree – God – _tree—_"

"You."

"What?"

"You." Merlin beams at her, catches her hands, and pulls her to her feet. Morgana winces. "_You're _the one who set the trees on me!"

"What—"

"Oh, you splendid, magnificent girl! You broke through!" He grabs her by the ears and kisses her, very hard, on the forehead. The expression on his face is nothing less than pure, unadulterated joy. Because of _her_. She has to remind herself how to stand up straight. The place where his mouth touched her burns. "You did it, Morgana, you did it!"

"I don't—"

"That was bloody _brilliant_, that was!" Merlin starts laughing, staring up at the trees. Then his eyes snap to her, and Morgana can feel a flush starting at the base of her throat at the look on his face. "I could _kiss _you right now, do you know?"

_You already did_, she almost says, but then her foot gives out. Morgana topples to the forest floor, and when she looks down, there's a stick stabbed into the sole of her foot, and blood is trickling down to drip in the dirt. Her head goes woozy, though why blood bothers her _now_ is just another bloody mystery. At least this time it's not dancing. She grips the stick, grits her teeth, and then wrenches it out, and when the world goes dim around the edges she feels like a wimp.

"Hold still." Merlin says, and before she can stop him, he's lifted her foot up into his hands, and whispered a word. There's a flare of warmth, and then the pain dies, and when she peers at it, there's nothing but a small patch of pink skin where blood and bared muscle and wood used to be.

She takes her foot back, and looks at him, and Merlin sits back on his heels and waits. Silence echoes around the trees. When she clears her throat, it sounds like a snarl. "….I don't understand."

Pause. Merlin smiles at her then, and stands, offering her a hand. "Come on, darlin' girl. It's time for the big reveal."

She hates nicknames. Somehow, when it's Ambrose – Merlin – she can't bring herself to care. Morgana wavers, and then she takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. "This had better be good."

"Believe me." He keeps a hold of her hand, and for once, Morgana doesn't pull away. For the first time in years, she feels well again. Almost whole. She doesn't want to lose it. "It is."

* * *

><p>He tells her. Every last detail. He tells her about Camelot, the old castle, the dragon and the magic and destinies. He tells her about Arthur and Guinevere, Lancelot and Nimueh, Gaius and Morgause. Mordred. The Lady of the Lake. Morgan le Fay. He tells her about Agravaine and Uther and Ygraine, Gorlois and Cenred, and everything he can remember, and she sits and listens as her frozen yogurt melts into a multicolored puddle.<p>

He tells her about the final battle, where Mordred killed Arthur, and Merlin fought a disguised Morgana le Fay. How he used their magic in combination to send the souls of the dead and the dying – because they were all dying – into the æther, to be reborn. The Once and Future King.

Her dreams aren't dreams, he says, they're memories and visions. She's not mad and never has been. The hallucinations are glimpses of the Other Side Of Things, the magical side, and the faces she's been seeing in her mind are the faces of all of them – Arthur, Guinevere, Gaius – "the court physician," he says, and somehow Morgana can see it – Uther and everyone else. There are so many flaws in this idea that she could blow on it and it would collapse, but she doesn't, because it feels right. It feels _true_, and something purrs inside her at the idea.

Finally, Merlin falls quiet, waiting for her to say something. Morgana looks out the window for a long time, playing with her spoon. She lets the memories play, and suddenly they all click together and she sees. She knows, and she has to wipe her eyes before she starts to cry.

"I'm Morgana." She echoes, and Merlin nods.

"You're Morgana."

"So – so what am I supposed to do?" Her heart twists. "If I'm fated to help Mordred kill Arthur—"

"That's the beauty of it though," Merlin says, and upends the sugar bowl on the table. He draws an arrow in the white powder. "This is how things used to progress, how our destinies used to work. From start to finish. But now—" He wipes the arrow away. "They're gone. We make our own choices. We forge our own destinies. The only thing that stays the same is that we're always linked."

She's struggling to comprehend this idea. "You and me?"

"And Gwen and Arthur and Mordred. Uther. And Gaius." He adds thoughtfully. "The seven of us, we're always linked. You've had lifetimes where Mordred is your son. Sometimes he's Arthur's brother. Sometimes you're both Arthur's children, and Uther never exists at all."

"But that makes no sense."

"When does magic make sense?" He says, and for some reason, she understands what he means. She knows nothing about magic, and still she understands. "It's the magic that's controlling where and when and why, Morgana, not our destinies, not anymore."

"…oh."

They sit in silence for a while. Morgana considers.

"Why does he call you Emrys?"

"Hm?" Merlin scrapes the side of the bowl of frozen yogurt with his spoon without looking at her. There's a leaf in his hair. She hasn't had the heart to tell him, or the bravery to pick it out. She's also fairly certain that eating frozen goods in early April in Dublin, when it's still bloody cold, is suicidal, but it's the only place to talk in private in between the coffee shop and Ethan's house that isn't a pub.

"Mord – Damian." She clears her throat. "Why does he call you Emrys?"

"Oh." Merlin smiles. "Because that's my name. Well, sort of. Ambrose is the English version of Emrys, or, actually Emrys is the _Welsh _version of Ambrose. And Damian's always called me Emrys. Since…well, for a long time."

_Since Camelot_. Morgana puts her spoon down, and leans back in her chair. "Look, let's say I believe you. Let's say…let's say that all of this—" she spreads her hands at the world "—has…happened before."

"A couple of times." Merlin says, and raises an eyebrow. When she says nothing, he steals the cherry off of her frozen yogurt. "You know. For the sake of argument."

Her mouth goes dry, and Morgana clears her throat. "Fine. A…a couple of times. Why don't I remember any of it? Why do you remember _all _of it?"

His mouth goes paper thin, and he's quiet for a long, worrying moment. "I…the first me was the one who cast this spell in the first place. I remember everything because I'm _supposed_ to. But just because I remember doesn't mean it keeps…replaying throughout history. The last time all of us existed at the same time was…." Merlin bites his lip. "Well, when Arthur was king."

She has to grip her chair very hard to make sure she doesn't faint. "You're madder than I am."

"Maybe. Doesn't mean I'm not real." He pops the cherry into his mouth, stem and all, and then grins at her, and Morgana scowls before chucking her damp napkin in his face.

"Cheeky bastard."

He grins at her. Then it slides off his face, and he clenches the napkin between his fingers, not looking at her anymore "I wouldn't blame you if you were…angry. With us. With me, I mean. Gaius and me, we…we were talking about you behind your back. It shouldn't have happened. We should have just told you, right at the beginning when Gaius realized you'd started to remember."

"I wouldn't have believed you."

"But we wouldn't have hurt you so much."

She falters. His eyes, when he looks at her again, are very blue. "I – we never meant to hurt you, Morgana."

For an instant, she can't breathe. She wants to reach out and touch him, but she doesn't. She squeezes her hands together under the table, anxiously. After a moment, Merlin stands, and says, "We go back to Caerleon tomorrow. As much as I dislike Agravaine, it's best that we head back for a little while, otherwise who knows what Arthur will do?"

She can't help it. She throws her head back and laughs until she staggers, until she cries, and Merlin has to link arms with her to keep her walking straight as they head back to Uncle Ethan's.

Because her old world is gone. She's deep in the madness now, and nothing can bring her back.

And for some indescribable reason – or maybe a very describable reason, the one that she's clinging to right now – she can't bring herself to care.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

Next chapter is the last. It will be considerably more angsty. And longer. There will be magical duels, probably. It'll be fun. Stay tuned.

Spells:  
><em>Ábeþecian - <em>detect  
><em>Cól - <em>calm

Thank you so much to:

**CrazyLikeaFox, squirtlemcgee2, Sahara Rose 101, Jenny, an old fashioned girl, MKofGod, Dawn Ruthless, Haley Renee, Elin Marc, **and** Sacred 3** for all the reviews! Love you muchly.

~Hope


	3. The Hanging Tree

**TRIGGER WARNING: **Mentions of an old cutting habit, battling, blood. Do not read if you can't handle hospital-worthy injuries.

* * *

><p><strong>The Hanging Tree<br>by Shu of the Wind**

She still has dreams about poison and blonde women with heavy-lidded eyes, but it's different. It's easier. The dreams only come on the nights she forgets to wear the bracelet, and those nights are rare. Sometimes she'll blink at someone – like Merlin's friend from the French literature department, Leon duBois – and she'll see them drenched in chain mail. Once she sees Gwen dressed up in a pretty purple gown with a crown on her head, and when Arthur drops them off in Caerleon his jaw drops at the sight of Morgana's roommate, and he cons a number out of her. Morgana scowls at him, and says it's a good thing she loves him (which Arthur blinks at her for, but he accepts her hug and writes her off as a freak, she's sure) before handing over the precious number and warning Gwen (who is stripping Arthur with her eyes) that she's going to have a blonde admirer.

Gwen doesn't seem to mind. Morgana asks that they warn her before they use the dormitory for their dates, and carries the bruise that Gwen gives her for three days.

Everything's easier now. Without the dreams, she can handle the memories. She even looks for them, sometimes. Merlin gives her a book he brought with him from Cardiff, a grimoire, and she teaches herself some spells. She can light and extinguish candles, and she can call a breeze, and make a flower out of nothing – or, more accurately, pull one from the other side of the world. She has to show Merlin the first time she summons a lily, and he smiles and tucks it behind her ear and Morgana has to turn away before he realizes she's blushing. Because she _never _blushes, and when she does, it's so obvious against her pale skin that even Gaius teases her about it.

April. May. It's the start of June when she catches Merlin packing his bags and realizes that their rhythm is going to be totally thrown off. Because they have a rhythm now, she realizes. She wakes up, goes to class, and then drags her homework and herself down to the bookstore, where Merlin minds the front desk more often than not, and she does her mathematics homework or her physics homework or her logic homework sitting across from him and when he pulls the paper away from her, she explains to him the mechanics of string theory, or the lifetime of a star, or the complexity of the P vs. NP problem, and he just sits and listens. She's never met anyone quite so good at listening. Even Gwen gets tired of hearing about astrophysics and advanced mathematics, especially considering Gwen is a literature major, but Merlin just listens. It's soothing.

Sometimes they sort books, but mostly after she finishes her homework Gaius takes over the front desk and they go back into the kitchen so Merlin can explain more about the magic. Or maybe they talk about Camelot. Or maybe just normal things. Sometimes she wonders what exactly it is about him that lets her talk to him. She _never _talks like this. Not to anyone. But Merlin knows about her. He _knows_ her, and it's not just the memories, either, because even with all the similarities there are differences between Camelot-Morgana and Caerleon-Morgana. Old Morgana played the harp before Merlin came to Camelot; New Morgana is completely tone-deaf. Old Morgana had more luck with fire spells, harsher magic, but New Morgana likes the softer ones; water-based spells, spells about darkness. Not evil, but the gentle darkness, the soft blanket of night, the black in a panther's pelt, the spaces between the stars. He's intuitive about her differences, he picks them out and promptly adjusts, and she never has to tell him anything more than once. She asks him why he's not at university, and he shrugs and says he wouldn't fit in.

She frowns at him, because she sees how he soaks up the knowledge of the bookstore and her class notes that he filches when he thinks she's not looking, but she doesn't push it because there might be another reason he doesn't want to talk about.

He always insists on walking her back to Ealdor, even though she always insists that it's not necessary, but she likes it anyway, in the dark part of the back of her mind where no one can ever sense it.

She's also almost certain he knows about the cutting, even though he never says anything about it. She never brings it up either.

And now that's all going away, it's all going to be different, because Merlin is going back to Cardiff. She doesn't know why it takes her by surprise that he's leaving. Gaius told her that, before he even came to Caerleon. He was only going to be here until the summer, and then he was going to leave, but now it's happening and her chest is constricting and she can't_think_. What is she supposed to do with Merlin gone? What is she supposed to do when her rock – because that's what he is, he's the thing that let her keep sanity, he's the thing that _made _her sane – leaves?

She can't imagine her life without him anymore.

She's already organized with Gaius that she's staying in the bookshop over summer vacation. Gaius is all for it, and Ethan is too. She's thankful for that. She's not quite come to steadiness when it comes to Ethan/Agravaine, especially when the memories of Agravaine-who-is-in-love-with-Morgana clash with her memories of Ethan-who-raised-Morgana. It makes her sick to her stomach to consider the first option. Because he's her _uncle_.

She wonders if Uther is her father in this life, or not. And then she laughs at herself because she's already thinking _in this life_ as though that's perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable, and to be honest, she wouldn't be all that surprised if he is. From what little information she's been able to gather about her mother, Vivian wasn't exactly the most loyal spouse.

Merlin doesn't even have a cell phone. She has a minor issue with the logic of this – how can you live in the 21st century and not have a _cell phone_? – but the problem is more that she won't be able to talk to him, and that bothers her more than she wants to admit.

She doesn't say anything to Merlin about it, especially when she catches him sitting next to his suitcase staring at it blankly, raking his hands through his hair. Morgana vanishes back downstairs before he notices her, but she's selfish; she's a little happy about his frustration, because it might mean he doesn't want to leave.

For some reason, she thinks of the time she overheard Merlin and Gaius talking about her in the kitchen.

_We can't lose her again, Gaius. _I _can't lose her again._

Days pass slowly and too quickly. Suddenly it's Thursday, and she's done with her finals, and Merlin is leaving tomorrow. She almost doesn't go to the bookshop; she doesn't know if she can take it, she can't play it off, she can't pretend this isn't ending, but she goes anyway, and when she opens the door she immediately notices that someone's taken the sword down off the wall.

"'lo." Merlin says from the counter, and he's bent over the blade, rubbing it with a cloth. She can smell polish thick in the air. Morgana wrinkles her nose.

"You could just magic it away."

"Some things are done better by hand." He heaves the sword up, turning it so the blade flashes in the light, and then sighs and caps off the polish. "Finally."

It feels like it should be in her palm. Morgana reaches forward, and then hesitates, but Merlin just lifts an eyebrow and offers it to her. When Morgana takes it, it's still warm from his hand. It's heavier than her foil or her epee, and it takes her a moment to find the balance. She swings it in a circle, feeling the twist in her wrist, and wonders how long it's been since she's practiced.

"Careful," Merlin says automatically, and she makes a face at him.

"I'm not going to chop a book." She hesitates, and then an idea blossoms in her mind and she points at him with the blade. "Have you ever fought with one of these?"

"Long time ago," Merlin replies, which is code for_Camelot_. "Can't remember anything." He gives her a considering look, and then frowns. "You're going to murder me, aren't you?"

"No, come on. Let's go to the roof." When he still wavers, Morgana lowers the sword and lifts an eyebrow at him. "Come on. It's not that hard, Merlin."

"That sounds familiar." Still, he stands and follows her up the stairs, and Morgana clutches the sword in a suddenly sweaty hand. The last time she used a sword like this, she was sixteen and in camp, and they had decided to do a medieval theme that year. They'd pulled a real swordsman from the woodworks, and since she'd already been practicing fencing, it had been hard for her to adjust. She hopes she can remember everything.

She has to adjust the way he holds the sword ("Arthur told you to hold it this way? Really?" "That was a long time ago, 'Gana") and she has to tap him a couple times to get him into the right position, but soon he's doing well, and she's gone and grabbed another practice sword from downstairs (Gaius has them everywhere) and they're mirroring each other. He's stiff at first, but then he relaxes, and some of the old memories come back, she's sure. They work in silence for a while. Then Merlin clears his throat, and says, "I'm leaving tomorrow."

The swords smack together with a clang. Morgana nearly drops hers. She can't look at him as she pulls back, slashing the sword through the air so that it makes a whistling noise, and ignores the way leather bands have closed tight around her chest, squeezing until she can't breathe. Merlin lowers his sword. "I didn't want to tell you."

"So you wait until now." Her temper flares. She bites the inside of her cheek, hard. "That's a brilliant idea, Merlin, very smart. Last possible moment."

"No, last possible moment would have been tomorrow as I left for the bus." He corrects, and he's trying to be funny but it's not working. Morgana slaps the sword against his, and he stumbles with the force of it.

"This isn't a _joke_, Merlin!"

"Morgana." She pulls away before he can reach out, before he can touch her. His hand falls to his side again, and he swears in Welsh. "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

She can't think of what to say. She sits on the bench that Merlin had dragged up here in May, and sets the sword down, running her hands through her hair. Merlin stays away, and for a breathless second she hates him for knowing her so well. And then the poison closes her throat, and she snaps out of it.

"I'm not going to make you stay." She says, even though her heart cracks at the words. "And it's not that – you're my friend. And I don't…" Why is it so hard to talk? "You're my best friend. I don't want you to leave."

He crouches in front of her. His eyes have gone soft. "Morgana."

"I'm not good at this." There's pressure on the back of her eyes. She sniffs, and tries very hard not to cry. "Bloody hell. I don't…I don't treat people very well, all right? I'm not very good at talking about…" The madness. The magic. Herself. Her feelings. "Everything. And it's selfish but you're the only one that's…that's tolerated me this long. And I—"

"I'm not tolerating you, Morgana. Hey." He turns her back to face him, and his thumb is rough against her cheek as he wipes the tear away. "I'm not going to be gone for long. Only a couple of months. I've talked to Gaius and he's going to let me work here once the summer's over. It's not going to be forever."

"I—" Why can't she _speak_? She pulls away from him. "I'm just…afraid that when you….when you leave. It'll all go back to the way it was. I'm scared that—" _spit it out, girl, come on_ "—I'm scared that this isn't…"

"This isn't real?" He laughs. God damn him, but he laughs. Morgana glares at him, and he shuts up immediately. "Morgana, I'm not a figment of your imagination. None of us are. You know that. Don't you?"

She does. But she just wants to hear him say it. Morgana takes a breath, stands, and goes to the edge of the roof, clutching the railing tight between her bare fingers. There's nothing else she can say, because she_doesn't_ know. She knows that it's true but she doesn't know if it's real, and that scares her more than anything else.

Merlin's quiet for a moment. Then he brushes her shoulder, lightly. "Here. Can I try something?"

"Yeah, of course."

Merlin reaches forward again. He hesitates, his fingers hovering over her sternum, where the pentacle's hidden under her shirt. "Um…"

"Oh." She can't look at him as she pulls the necklace free, letting it rest against her shirt. He takes the pentacle in his palm, wraps his fingers around it, and closes his eyes. Morgana tries very hard not to breathe as the feel of magic shifts a bit.

"_H__ȳ__ran_."

It's a word she doesn't know. Morgana waits until he lets go of the pendant to clear her throat. "What was that?"

"You'll see." He says, and then gestures at her. "You do me."

Suddenly she's very glad her hair is hiding her face, because it means he can't see her blush. She reaches forward, and hesitates before brushing her fingers over his collarbone, trying to find the chain. When he shifts to help her, their fingers touch and it's like a shock of electricity. Finally she has the pentacle closed up in her hand, and she squeezes her eyes shut. "Now what?"

"Imagine your magic." He says, and she does; it's a pulsing grey-green swirl. In her hand, she can feel Merlin's magic, trapped inside the pendant; a soft blue-grey, like cashmere. "When you cast the spell, you need to link it just slightly with the pendant."

"I don't know if I—"

He covers her hand with his, and she looks up. He's smiling. "Trust me, Morgana. You can do this."

She casts the spell. She can _feel _it when the link settles, and she wonders for a moment why he insisted on this; then his magic unfurls in the back of her mind, and she can't help taking a sharp breath. Her eyes fly open, and she realizes they must be gold with the magic, because his are too, and Merlin grins. "See? Cheaper than a cell phone. It won't be talking, per se, but it's…pretty constant." He scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly. "And you can cut it off whenever, I mean, I know you might not want me in your head all the time, I just thought—"

"I don't mind." She interrupts.

They look at each other for a long moment, and she's not entirely sure how it happens, but suddenly she's leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, and Merlin has her in a tight grip, with his forehead resting on the crook between her neck and shoulder, and she can't do anything other than hold on. She's not sure if this is Old Morgana or New Morgana or both, but it feels right and that's all that matters.

"I'll be back." He says into her hair, and Morgana rests her cheek against his shoulder and breathes him in. "You know that, don't you?"

"You'd better be." She snaps, but her voice quivers a bit and she doesn't _do this_ usually, she doesn't like being vulnerable, but here she is, shaking, because what if he leaves and it all turns out to be a dream? What if she really is mad, and she's just imagining it all? What if she isn't, and he never comes back to Caerleon? "Or I won't be responsible for my actions."

He laughs and she feels it through her ribs. "I'm appropriately terrified."

It's warm for this time of year. They stay on the roof for as long as they can. Merlin dozes a bit, his head on her shoulder. Morgana stays awake, and she rubs her thumb over the back of his hand in small circles, something she would never dare to do if he was conscious, and she watches him sleep. And after he wakes up and _she _dozes off (or pretends to), she has to pretend she doesn't feel his lips against her hair.

It makes everything worse.

She doesn't go with Gaius to see Merlin to the bus stop. The feel of his magic as he boards and waves to his uncle is a gentle, bittersweet caress against her mind. Morgana wraps herself around a pillow and watches the light play against the wall.

She doesn't cry. She's not very good at it and she doesn't like not being able to breathe, so she just doesn't. But it feels like she should be.

She sits that way for an hour before she forces herself downstairs, back into the bookstore, and back into life. She's not useless without him, and besides, he's there. Faint, but there.

She's still sane, and he's still there, and that's all that matters.

* * *

><p>It's the middle of July when Nimueh walks into the bookshop.<p>

She doesn't know it's Nimueh at first. She only saw the woman once, maybe twice in Camelot, she can't remember, and her mind and her lives are all jumbled up anyway. There's been other lives, though. There's a flash of Nimueh in a military uniform, grinning at her over coffee and switchboards, her dark hair wrapped up in a harsh bun, her lips popping red with lipstick that she knows Natalie – Nimeuh – had stashed in the toe of her stocking in her top drawer. And she knew that because she and Natalie had been lovers in one life, and looking at this woman in front of her she can remember hands on her ribcage, those bright red lips on hers, and in spite of herself – it's an old life, one that no longer applies to her, one that she can no longer comprehend – her mouth goes dry. She has to clear her throat before she asks, "May I help you?"

"You're Morgana Rhys?" She asks, and Morgana tightens her hands into fists under the counter.

"Who wants to know?" And why is she remembering Nimueh now, after Merlin told her specifically that it's only the seven of them? Her, Gwen, Mordred, Merlin, Arthur, Uther, Gaius. The seven of them. But she can remember others. She can remember Elyan. She can remember Gwaine. She can remember Leon, and suddenly Merlin's friend in the armor makes so much more sense.

Nimueh doesn't smile. She sets a hand on the counter as she digs through her purse. Her nails are painted red as rubies, drops of blood against the inlaid glass. "My name is Nora Hitchens. I'm a detective with Cambridge CID."

Morgana's eyebrows snap together. "Excuse me?"

Nimueh offers her a wallet with an ID card and a badge. Her lips are pressed tight together; there are shadows in her eyes. "Is there someplace we could talk, Miss Rhys?"

Tentatively, Morgana stretches out with her magic. Or she lets herself sink into it, she's not sure. She's not picking anything up from Nimueh. Not a single drop. And she remembers old lifetimes where _she_, Morgana, had no magic, had no memories, had no fear of madness and no way of knowing who she used to be, and she stands.

"Through the back."

Gaius takes the fact that Morgana has invited Nimueh – Nora, she corrects herself quietly, silently, because this woman isn't Nimueh, not anymore – into the kitchen of his home. He simply lifts his eyebrows at her, squeezes her hand once, and shuffles out to man the front desk. She owes him more than an explanation after this, she knows; she owes him reassurance that she's not the Old Morgana, and she owes him coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. It's the only way she's found to make Gaius stop grumping. She pushes the button on the coffee machine before pouring herself a mug of tea. "Would you like one?"

"Please," says Nora, and she's distracted; her nails tap against the screen of her phone, her forehead creasing in frustration. Morgana makes another mug and slides it in front of the detective, wrapping herself around her own.

"Were you aware that your uncle, Ethan Myers, had filed a missing persons report when your mother disappeared sixteen years ago?"

"Yes." This isn't news. Ethan complains about the police all the time. "Only he filed it with the Dublin Met."

"There's a national database." Nora waves this away, her eyes flicking to Morgana. "I only ask because a woman matching her description was arrested in Cambridge two days ago for attempted murder."

Her world rocks. Morgana grips the table, hard, and has to try very hard not to vomit. Scream. Run from the room. "Are you _serious_? What happened?"

"She tried to attack her employer, Uther Pendergast."

_Pendragon_, she corrects silently, but that's the Old Uther, not the New Uther. Her mind has imploded. Morgana stands, lifts a hand to her throat. Nora watches her, carefully. "I'm sorry, I just – I need a moment."

"Please."

_Breathe_. She tells herself, turning away from Nora._Breathe._ She wants to whisper a spell, to call Merlin, but she won't. She's not that weak. She turns around again, and settles at the table. "I know Mr. Pendergast. He was my father's friend. I met him over Easter break."

Nora's eyes sharpen. "Really."

"He…he and his son came to stay with Uncle Ethan for Easter." Her throat clenches. Arthur. If someone is – if her mother, if Vivian – is trying to kill Uther, will she go after Arthur too? "Are they all right?"

"The boy, Arthur, took the blow for his father. He's all right. Discharged from the hospital. Simple flesh wound." She's like a machine. Spitting out facts and giving no substance. "It'll heal in a month or two. Were you aware that your mother once had a sexual relationship with Uther Pendergast?"

She should be expecting this, but still. Tunnel vision closes in. Morgana takes a deep breath and sips her tea, wondering if Nora has noticed her shaking hands. The woman is watching her carefully. "I haven't seen or heard from her in sixteen years. I have no idea what she's doing. Or who she's slept with."

"No one ever mentioned it? Not your father?"

"My father died before I was born. I was raised by my uncle." Morgana pauses. "Which I'm sure you know. So why are you asking me these questions? You can't possibly expect me to know anything about my mother's—" the word tastes funny in her mouth, like a forbidden drug "—life or why she would try to kill someone."

Nora looks at her for a moment. Then she pulls a file from her bag, opens it, and pushes it across the table. Morgana hesitates before she pulls it closer, studying the graphs. She recognizes a few words –_mitochondria_, _DNA_, _blood spots_ – before she can't read anymore. "I'm an astrophysics student, not a biologist. I don't know what this means."

"There was another attacker." Nora says blandly, but her eyes are glass-sharp. "Face hidden. We collected a blood sample from the crime scene, and one of the lab techs figured out it shared many traits in common with both Uther Pendergast and Vivian Cartwright."

"Their child?" Morgana's head is spinning. She hesitates. She hasn't cut in weeks, not since she thought she was going mad. She has no fresh scratches. She can disprove this theory right now. But there's something niggling at the back of her mind, something she's forgotten, and she has a feeling that it isn't from this life. "You think that second attacker was me."

"We think nothing." Nora says, and stands. "It would be appreciated if you would come down to the station for a little while."

Morgana lets out a shaky breath. "When did M—when did Vivian attack Mr. Pendergast?"

"Two days ago, around eleven AM."

She relaxes. "I was in one of my finals. Theoretical mathematics. You can check with my professor."

Nora doesn't deflate, or even react to this piece of information. Clearly, it doesn't matter. "I would still appreciate it if you came in, Miss Rhys. I assume you have nothing else to do today."

"I have the shop to help mind, and—"

"Please don't make me arrest you, Miss Rhys."

Morgana stares at her. Nora stares back. "Fine," Morgana says, and stands. She pours her tea down the sink. "We had better go now if we want to beat the traffic."

* * *

><p>"Ari."<p>

She can't help saying it. The instant she spies Arthur – Ari, she corrects herself – out of the corner of her eye, his arm put up in a sling, wincing as he leaves the police station in Cambridge, she bolts from the car and runs to him. There's no question he's surprised to see her – she doubts she's ever seen his eyes that big, except maybe when he first spotted Gwen – but when she hugs him, his good arm goes tight around her waist and she gets the breath squeezed out of her. She's careful not to touch his bad one, but he still winces. "Are you all right?"

"Morgana, what are you doing here?" Arthur's eyes flick over her head to Nora Hitchens, slipping out of the car, and his hand tightens automatically on her waist. "Detective."

"Miss Rhys has been brought in for questioning."

"Morgana has nothing to do with this—"

"I am merely following a line of inquiry." Nora says in her robot-voice, and Morgana takes Ari's hand and squeezes it hard. He glances at her.

"Morgana—"

"It's all right." It has to be. "It's just an inquiry, Ari."

Arthur gives her a funny look, maybe about the nickname – she can't remember if she's ever called him Ari to his face before – but Nora takes her elbow. "Excuse us, Mr. Pendergast."

"Hold on a second." Arthur says, and pulls Morgana away. He keeps his voice low and cautious. "You _did_have nothing to do with this. Right?"

"Of course not!" She's not offended he asked. It's a bit of a concern, though. His memories might be closer to the surface than either she or Merlin estimated, and the last thing she needs now is for Arthur to come to her thinking he's going mad. If he comes to her at all. "They brought me in because Vivian Cartwright is my mother, Ari."

"She's your—"

Her brain screams, Morgana whines, and Arthur barely catches her around the waist before the vision explodes behind her eyes. Blonde hair, heavy-lidded eyes, it's_Morgause_, how could she have not remembered Morgause, after everything, and Ethan flickers in her mind's eye, but it's Agravaine, and he's kneeling in front of Morgause with his arm crossed over his chest –

The image shifts and it's the coffee shop in Dublin, and they're crashing through the door, and there's an explosion and Violet crumples to the floor. Blood coats her vision. She blinks wildly. She can barely see Arthur through the fog. Morgause and behind her is Agravaine, clutching a struggling Mordred against his chest, and Morgause's eyes flare gold as she whispers a spell that makes Mordred go limp –

And then it's Uther falling through a window, Arthur dead on the floor with a knife in his chest, Merlin clutching his throat as blood bubbles over his fingers, and Morgause is laughing, laughing, laughing –

_LET ME GO_! She screams into the silence, and the world snaps back to normal again. She clings to Arthur, shaking. It's only been a second. "Listen to me." She glances back at Nora, who's talking to some men in uniform, gesturing in her direction. "Get Mer—get Ambrose here, please."

"Ambrose?"

He's probably already sensed her panic, but it can't hurt for Arthur to tell him too. "Bring him here. And….and tell him to bring Damian. Tell him to keep Damian safe. Please, Ari. Trust me." Her eyes flick over his face, begging him. "Please. I can hold out here for that long. But I need you to do that for me. _Please_."

In the back of her mind, she feels the slightest twitch from the spell, and when she closes her eyes she can see Merlin shooting up off his bed, and even with all his magic, it's going to take him precious time to get to Dublin to collect Mordred before coming to find her. She can feel his turmoil. _Mordred or her?_ But it's a race against time, and Mordred is more important than she is. She doesn't know how, but he is, because Morgause wouldn't be going after him otherwise. "Tell him to take care of Damian. _Please_!"

Someone takes her by the arms and pulls her away. Nora gets in between Morgana and Arthur. He's shouting, Morgana's thrashing, and the uniforms drag her forward into the station, ignoring her screams.

"_They're going to try again_!"

* * *

><p>"Did you participate in the attempt on the life of Uther Pendergast?"<p>

"No."

"Did you in any way threaten the life of Uther Pendergast?"

"No. I was in Caerleon taking my mathematics final."

"But you've met him."

"Once."

"Have you ever had any arguments, any fights?"

"I've talked to him maybe twice. And…I liked him."

"Did you know he may be your biological father?"

"No, I didn't."

"Are you certain of that?"

"My father was Gordon Rhys. He died before I was born."

"Your DNA says otherwise."

"…"

"Would it surprise you to know that your mother was legally forbidden from seeing you because of a lawsuit your father made—"

"That Uther made, you mean."

"—claiming her to be an unfit parent?"

"…"

"I repeat, have you ever been contacted by your mother?"

"No."

"Have you ever been contacted by anyone speaking for her?"

"No."

"Has your uncle, Ethan, ever given you a message from her?"

"No. This is ridiculous. I was taking my exams, for God's sake, I was halfway across the country, I had _nothing_to do with this!"

"We'll continue this later, Miss Rhys. Do you have anyone you would like to contact?"

"No. Thank you."

* * *

><p>Two hours later.<p>

"What is your relationship with Arthur Pendergast?"

"…"

"Are you in a sexual relationship?"

"That's disgusting."

"Certainly it would be, because Arthur Pendergast is your half-brother, according to the blood testing we did earlier today."

"For God's sake, I haven't slept with Arthur Pendergast. I've never wanted to. He's just a friend!"

"Who did you tell him to contact?"

"That's none of your business."

"Was it possibly a warning for your mother's accomplice?"

"You're mad. Arthur's Uther's _son_. He would _never _take a message to someone who tried to murder his father."

"…"

"Nabbed you there, didn't I?'

"Who is Ambrose?"

"My best friend."

"Why do you want him here?"

"Because he's my best friend and one of our friends was just attacked."

"Uther?"

"No. Ari."

"Who's Damian?"

"…"

"Have you ever been contacted by your mother, Vivian Cartwright?"

"I haven't seen or heard from her in any way in sixteen years, and I've told you that at least a dozen times."

"It says on your private record that you were taken to Beaumont Hospital in Dublin three years ago after an attempted suicide. You have not gone to therapy."

"Couldn't afford it. I don't see how that has anything to do with this."

"It means that you have previous indicators of mental instability—"

"How dare you!"

"—and so I ask again, _did you participate in the plot against Uther Pendergast_?"

"No! What reason would I have to hurt him? What_reason _do I have to lie about it?"

Silence.

"I'll come back in an hour. Maybe then you'd like to tell me the truth, Morgana."

* * *

><p>It's nearly midnight when Gwaine walks into the room, and for an instant, Morgana wonders if she's seeing things. She's not sure if that's funny or cruel, if the universe is playing some enormous joke on her. He gives her a flirty smile as he strides into the room, and Nimueh – Nora – glares at him. "Mr. Gwyar. You are not Miss Rhys's solicitor."<p>

"Well, no, but her name called to me." He winks at Morgana. "Welshmen need to stick together, y'know. Anyway, Detective, you've been in here for a long while, haven't you? Eight hours? I'm surprised her _actual_solicitor hasn't shown yet."

Color flares in Nimueh's cheeks. "Dryer's been caught in traffic."

"For eight hours?" Gwaine doesn't wait for an answer; he takes the chair next to Morgana, sitting across from Nimueh. "Surprising amount of traffic. The young Mr. Pendergast sent me, though I might be of some help. Can you tell me the charges laid at this young lady's door, Detective?"

Nora grinds her teeth. "She is being held on suspicion of the attempted murder of—"

"The _charges_, Detective, I assume there are some."

Nora remains silent.

"Right." He lifts an eyebrow. "Evidence?"

Nothing. Gwaine stands again. He hasn't even opened his briefcase. "She's being released under bail, Nora. You have nothing to hold her here, and as far as I can tell, Uther Pendergast is pressuring you to keep her here."

Nora colors bright red. "How dare you—"

"Miss Rhys." Gwaine says, and Morgana stands. She crosses her arms tight across her chest and wishes she'd brought a jacket. It's cold in this room. "They'll return your things to you tomorrow."

She rubs her wrist where the bracelet used to be, and decides not to sleep tonight. Morgana nods, and doesn't bother to look back at Nimueh as she follows Gwaine out of the room. He looks different than she remembers him, shorter hair, but his face is still the same, his jaw rough with stubble, his eyes dark and smooth. She lets out a shaky breath as the door to the station shuts behind them, and Gwaine glances at her before pulling his jacket off and setting it around her shoulders. His fingers brush against her collarbone in a definite flirtatious gesture, but she ignores it. It's just how Gwaine is.

"Come on. Arthur's rented a room for you nearby. Your friends are there."

_Merlin_, she thinks, and her heart leaps up into her throat. She pulls the coat around herself, and nods.

"Thank you."

"Anytime." Gwaine says, and grins. "Arthur would have murdered me if I didn't help his little sister."

Her chest tightens. "Then it's true?"

"Saw the records. Blood doesn't lie." He hesitates. "Come on. We'd better get you back."

She hugs him, quickly, before she can talk herself out of it.

The bed and breakfast is only a few blocks away, and Gwaine knows the owners; he gestures upstairs, and stays by the counter to flirt with the pretty young receptionist. The moment she opens the door to room twelve, Mordred flies off the bed to throw his arms around her, and Arthur sits up, looking awkward with only one functional arm. She squeezes Mordred tight, and when he prods at her mind, she lets him see the vision. Only parts of it, though. He doesn't need to see the blood.

_We have to do something about Morgause_. He says, and she kisses the top of his head and replies, _Not now, Mordred_.

"Thank you." She tells Arthur, and he colors a little bit before coughing.

"No problem." There's no one else here. "Where's Ambrose?"

"He dropped off the little br—the kid and scarpered." Arthur says, as Mordred tells her, _He went after Morgause_.

_On his own?_

_I couldn't stop him. They…_And it's then that she realizes Mordred has tear tracks down his face, and she sits on the end of the bed and gathers him up and searches for Merlin's magic in the back of her mind, her hand tight around the pentacle. He's alive, frustrated but unhurt, and for now she can't be bothered about him. She rocks Mordred, who clings to her and sobs, and Arthur looks about ready to either punch through the wall or panic or both.

"What's wrong?"

"His mother was killed." Morgana says, and presses her lips to the top of Mordred's head as he cries. He hides his face in her shoulder. "How did Merlin get you out, sweetheart?"

_Shield spell_.

"What – _killed_?" Arthur stares at them, and suspicion creeps into his eyes. "Morgana, what the hell is going on?"

She ignores him, and cups Mordred's face in her hands. "_A ghrá_, tell me what happened."

He gasps and gulps, and thrusts the images at her. Morgause and Agravaine plunging through the door of the coffee shop. Violet pushing him under the counter, drawing them away from him, Emrys bursting through the door but too late, her blood is already pouring across the floor, and Morgause's mouth twists and she flares away in a flash of smoke. Agravaine's carried with her. And as Emrys calls in the murder, he gathers Mordred up in his arms and walks away, and Morgana wrenches herself out of the memories and holds the crying boy, and stares at Arthur.

"Listen to me, Arthur. You're going to have to trust me, all right? I need you to take your father and Mor—Damian, and I need you to hide. I don't care where you go. Don't go to Caerleon, don't go to Dublin, just _get out of here_. Is there someplace you can go, somewhere you'll be safe?"

He hesitates. "Morgana—"

"_Please_."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on!"

Mordred looks up at her. The pentacle goes hot against her skin. The words pour from her lips, mixing Irish and the Old Language, and it's nothing Merlin would ever say, nothing the grimoire has ever taught her, but Mordred clutches at her shirt and she feels her eyes go gold nonetheless. "_Dúisigh, mo rí_!_Ic þé bebíede þæt þú ne slæpest_! _Ní mór duit cuimhneamh, agus éist liom_!"

Arthur shouts, and his hands go to his head. Mordred crawls off of her lap so Morgana can catch Arthur before he falls, and her finger brushes over the wound. Magic sparks without her permission, knitting skin together again, and she catches his head in both hands, forcing him to look at her.

"I am not who I was." She says. "I am not Morgana le Fay. I am your sister, and I love you, and I want to keep you safe. I mean you no harm. Do you understand?"

He squints at her as if from a great distance, and she wonders if she's made a mistake.

"You are not mad." She says, because if it had been her this would be what she needed to hear. "You have been sleeping most of your life. I have given you your memories back. I know it hurts," she adds, when he tries to pull away, "I know, I know, but Ari, I need you to understand. Morgause is trying to kill you, she's trying to kill you and Uther and Merlin and Mordred, and if you don't trust me, there's no way you're going to survive the night."

He believes her. She's not sure if it's the lack of dreadlocks in her hair, or the expression on her face, or the memories suddenly all clicking together and making sense, but he looks at her and she can see it in his face. He believes her. That, and the fact that his arm is healed. She lets him go, and hugs him quickly, and after the slightest hesitation he hugs her back.

"You're mad." He says, almost wonderingly, and Morgana laughs at him.

"Maybe. But right now I need to save another madman, and when it comes to magic, you're not much of a help." She kisses his cheek. "Take Damian and Uther and run. If it makes you feel better, don't tell me where. But you have nothing to fear from me. I hope you know that."

He lets her go. Morgana takes a few steps back, ignoring the look on Arthur's face, and wonders if that's how she looked when Merlin chased her down in the park and the trees stole him off the ground to save her. Mordred stares at her with enormous eyes as she crouches at the edge of the bed, putting their faces on level. _You weren't supposed to lift the fog on his memories._

_How else were we supposed to get him to help?_ She kisses his forehead one last time, hugs him, and whispers, "Keep me in mind. I'll tell you when it's safe to return."

His arms go strangle-tight around her neck. Morgana stays still for one long moment before she pushes him towards Arthur, and together, king and kingslayer leave the room, and as the door closes she sees Mordred tuck her hand into Arthur's and hold it tight.

Morgana clasps her hands over the pentacle, and holds Merlin in her mind's eye.

"_Ábeþecian min_ _léof_."

* * *

><p>Tintagel.<p>

It's a tiny town on the Cornish coast, and by rights it should take her much longer to get there than it does, but memory flickers in the back of her mind, and one of the spells Morgause taught her so long ago rises to her lips. Of course Morgause would pick Tintagel. Of course it would be the place. It's where Gorlois and Vivienne lived before they were called to Camelot. It's poetic justice for Morgause, and it would be for Morgana if her mind had been as corrupted as it had once been.

She can feel the familiarity of this place as the spell lets her go, the way the wind whips against Gwaine's leather jacket (so harsh for a solicitor), and how it pulls her hair out of the ponytail. She lets it blow. Morgause will recognize her better that way. The bead of heat in her chest that's her tracking spell tugs her forward, and she starts down the hill towards the ruins, following the line of stone wall.

She knows no real fighting spells, not anymore. That's one part of her memory that she hasn't wanted to unlock. She's frightened of it, truth be told; she wonders if she'll turn back to the way she was if she remembers everything she used to be able to do: snap a man's fingers without touching them, burn someone alive from the inside out, how to break tendons and flay muscle, shatter bones, rape the mind and turn a human being into nothing more than a motionless lump of flesh. It makes her sick to remember everyone she destroyed, so she doesn't remember how she did it. And that offers her some distance.

She hears the crackle of magic before she sees them. Morgause's voice is rough and harsh, nothing like she remembers, and she can feel the tainted twist to her spell as she casts. Merlin bellows something in the Old Language – she thinks it's _forbærne_, and the rush of fire, as though it's dragonflame, makes her right – and Morgana slips and slides down the hill in her rush to make it in time.

"_Ástrice_!" Morgause hisses, and something explodes. Her clothes catch in a nearby bush. Morgana pushes through, ignoring the scratches on her legs, and throws her hands out towards Morgause.

"_Wáce ierlic_!"

She wishes for a single instant that she hadn't cast. The force of the spell hits Morgause in the chest, flinging her back into one of the old walls. She hits it with a thud, and Morgana can only stand and stare, transfixed. Morgause is shorter than she is, shorter than she remembers; her long blonde hair has been cut short, and her eyes…something's wrong with them.

It's only now that she's standing here that she realizes she has no actual plan, she has no master tactic, she just has a handful of spells and her sister, bleeding on the ground, and Merlin standing behind her, and she has to choose between them. She has to pick which one, and for some reason she thinks it should be a harder choice, but it's really not.

Someone catches her shoulder. Merlin. She turns to look at him. There's blood leaking down the side of his face, and she reaches up automatically to heal it, but he catches her wrist, keeping his eyes on Morgause. "Morgana, what are you doing here?"

"Do you even need to ask?" She wants to kiss him. The force of that want scares her. She pulls back instead. "Merlin—"

"You're not supposed to be here, Morgana!" It's clear that she's ruined some save-the-world, die-in-the-process plan, because he's looking at her with terror in his eyes, and she wonders if he's just as scared to lose her as she is him. "You're supposed to be protecting Arthur and Mordred—"

"Morgana." Morgause says, and they both shut up. She stands, holding her arm tight, and Morgana presses her mouth into a grim line. She must have broken it with the spell. "Morgana, you're here."

Morgana squeezes Merlin's hand – a reassurance, a warning – and then pulls away. He lets her go. She can feel panic in the back of her mind, barely suppressed, and wonders if he thinks she'll turn on him. "It's all right," she says aloud. "It's all right, sweetheart."

It's for Merlin. Morgause doesn't know that. "Of course it is." Morgause says, and she's smiling. One of her eyes is shot through with blood. "Morgana, you found me."

"I always do." Morgana replies, and takes a few cautious steps forward. "Morgause, what are you doing, sweetheart? Why are you attacking Ambrose?"

Morgause hesitates. Her brow furrows. "Ambrose."

"My friend." Morgana gestures back to Merlin, and steps forward, slowly, carefully. Something's off about Morgause. Something's wrong. She's never felt magic like this before. She doesn't understand what's happened. It's…twisted. It's all in knots, and no matter how she prods she can't unravel it. "My friend Ambrose."

"Friend." She mulls this over, and as she does, Morgana takes two more steps forward. There's only ten feet between her and Morgause now, and if she wanted to she could cast another spell and break her sister's skull open against the wall. She doesn't. "Who?"

"Ambrose." She hesitates, and then corrects herself. "Merlin Emrys."

Something black flashes in Morgause's eyes. Her hand twists. Something seizes Morgana by her shirtfront and drags her forward until she crashes into Morgause, and her sister smells like lavender shampoo and dirt and blood, and she has to steady them both so they don't fall over. And then Morgaues has thrust Morgana behind her, and she's turning to cast another spell, and Morgana has to lunge forward and catch Morgause around the knees to drag her down to the dirt.

"_Oferswing_," Morgause hisses, and something slams Morgana against the wall. She feels all the bones in her body vibrate, and black closes in for a second. When she can finally breathe again, Morgause is pacing like a panther in front of her, and Merlin is pacing trying to find an opening, and she's the prize in a sick game of tug of war. The courtyard lights up with magic and fire. She can smell lightning in the air. She coughs, takes a deep shuddering breath. Something in her chest crackles. Under her sleeves, her scars throb.

"Morgause!" She shouts, and when her sister turns to look at her, she throws out her hands. "_Wáce ierlic_!"

Morgause bats the spell away, and snarls, going for a sword at her hip that doesn't exist. And that's when Morgana realizes it. Through her one good eye, Morgause is seeing them in the courtyard at Camelot.

There's only a rustling in the brush to warn her before Agravaine lunges through the bushes to land on top of her, and Morgana screams. "_Ethan_!" Merlin turns to look at them, and Morgause takes her chance; she throws another fire spell, and it hits Merlin in the shoulder. Morgana screams again, her nails scraping at the dirt around her, and when she finds a rock, she twists. The stone crashes against Agravaine's temple, and he rears back, swearing. Morgana scrabbles away, knocking him back with magic, ignoring the blood on the rock, as Morgause throws another spell, another, another –

"_STOP_!"

Morgause raises a hand, and points at the crumbling wall behind Merlin. He throws another fireball, but he realizes what she's doing a second too late; the rocks are collapsing, and there's no time. She's too far away. Before she can do anything, he's crumpled to the ground, and she can see the slick sheen of blood against his hair. Morgana reaches out, and screams a word she doesn't know.

The rocks hover in midair over Merlin's head.

There's a single moment of stunned silence. Morgause turns to stare at Morgana, who's sprawled full length over the dirt, and the magic is shuddering inside her. She can't hold it. She turns, and throws, and the rocks go flying over Morgause's head, into the ocean. Her sister stays glacier still as Morgana scrambles forward, her heart pounding in her ears, and terror closes up her throat, her mind, everything. _You are not allowed to be dead_. But she doesn't know if Merlin's magic is still in the back of her mind or not, she's too panicked to tell, and when she finally reaches him, she can't tell if he's breathing or not. She has to hold her hand over his heart to make sure it's still beating before some of the fear leaks away. His breathing is shallow, and there's more blood every second; when she puts her fingers to his head they come away sticky.

"No. No, no, no. No no no no no. You are not allowed to _die _on me." She's not a doctor, she doesn't know if this is bad or not, but the blood is making her sick and she pushes Gwaine's jacket off, pulling off her shirt, wadding it up, pressing it against his head. Her scars are all visible, down her arms and on her hip where her tank top has ridden up, but she doesn't care. She looks at Morgause. "Help me!"

Morgause looks at her as though she's been stabbed in the back. "Morgana…"

"_This isn't Camelot_!" She screams, and Morgause flinches as though she's been struck. "This isn't what we're supposed to _do_ anymore! This isn't our destiny, this isn't _anything_ – you don't need to kill him, Morgause!" And she's not sure if _him _is Uther or Arthur or Merlin or all three, but she doesn't care, because Merlin is lying on the ground in front of her and she can feel the sickly warm blood leaking through her shirt already. "_Please_!"

She can heal little things, but only if she doesn't think about it. She doesn't know any spells for that, not really. And she's too panicked to let the magic work through her. She looks up at the sky, and the full moon is cool and distant. She wonders if she can scream at the magic to help, but she doesn't know if it will listen. Her cell phone is still in her pocket, and she doesn't look at Morgause anymore; she pulls it out, pressing buttons with shaking hands, listening to it ring. She lets out a broken sob, and when she pulls her shirt off of Merlin's head, the blood hasn't stopped.

"No, no, _no_!"

"What's your emergency?"

She jabbers something into the phone, and she's sure she's hysterical, but the magic isn't coming for her, and Morgause is gone when she turns around. The air ambulance shows up ten minutes later, and by that time, Merlin is pale as ivory, barely breathing, and Morgana cannot let herself cry.

* * *

><p>The emergency helicopter flies them to Bodmin Community Hospital. Ever since she slashed her wrists at sixteen, Morgana's hated hospitals; the smell, the taste of them in the back of her throat, the endless waiting. She tells them she's Merlin's sister, and since their coloring is so similar, they let him into his room once he's been wheeled out of surgery.<p>

She barely recognizes him wrapped up in the bandages. The nurse keeps talking to her, telling her that Merlin was never really in danger, that head wounds always bleed a lot, and he should wake up in a few hours with a broken arm and a sour temper, but all Morgana can think of is the way the blood had soaked through her shirt so fast. It's still sticking to her knees; she'd knelt in some accidentally, and her jeans are crusty with the stuff. She calls Gaius at the bookshop, and it's a rush of relief when he answers the phone; she supposes Morgause hadn't remembered or cared too much about the old court physician. She doesn't know if Mordred has been eavesdropping on her or not; she hopes he is, because then he knows that it's not safe yet, that they haven't found Morgause, that Morgause ran away.

Without Vivienne – Vivian, she corrects herself, tightening her grip on Merlin's hand – maybe Morgause won't do anything. She's not trusting that, though. She's never met her sister in this life, she doesn't know how much like Old Morgause she is; whether or not she'll try again is completely outside of her realm of expertise. She swears under her breath in Irish and wonders if Agravaine – if Ethan is all right. They found him too, and he was a few rooms away, sleeping it off. He hadn't been struck near so hard as Merlin had.

Morgana leans forward, and rests her head on the blankets, running her thumb over the back of Merlin's pale hand and wondering why she was so tired. It's past dawn. She's been sitting here for who knows how long, has absolutely refused to leave, and the nurse on duty hasn't had the heart to throw her out.

A hawk taps against the window. Morgana looks at it for a long moment, uncomprehending, before she stands, and Merlin's hand slips out of hers. There's only one person it could be.

She doesn't leave a note. She simply leans forward and presses her lips to Merlin's, lightly, breathing him in even though he's not kissing back, before she sidles out of the room.

Morgause is waiting in the parking lot, leaning against a lamppost, when Morgana finally makes her way out of the hospital. She's healed herself, or someone's healed her. Her magic still feels sick, twisted. Morgana keeps her distance. "What do you want?"

Morgause flinches, as though she's been struck. "Sister…"

"What do you want, Morgause?" She repeats, slowly, and she's so tired she no longer cares if Morgause attacks her or not. She can't, anyway. It's the middle of the real world. She doesn't know what Morgause is seeing, but it's too public. "I don't have much time. I have to go back inside in a minute."

Morgause looks at her for a long moment. Morgana wonders if she can fix her, if anyone can ever fix Morgause, if this is her mother's doing or some sick trick of the magic to make her this way. Finally, Morgause licks her lips, and straightens. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you save the warlock?"

Morgana crosses her arms tight over her chest. "You have no business asking me that when I've never met you before in my life."

Morgause flinches again, and she reaches out. Her hand falls to her side before she can touch Morgana. She doesn't try again. "Morgana…"

She feels frozen inside. Morgana lifts a hand, and before she can talk herself out of it, she says, "_Swefe nu_."

Morgause's eyes widen, and her pupils go wide, but she crumples to the ground. Morgana watches her against the asphalt, as her chest lifts and falls in sleep, before she kneels by her sister and runs a hand through her hair.

She calls the police while Morgause sleeps, and waits until the flashing lights pull into the parking lot before standing and walking away, leaving the hospital, Tintagel, and walking as far as she can before she magicks herself back to Caerleon.

* * *

><p>She doesn't see Merlin walk in. She's too busy trying to stick the sword – she's christened it Excalibur in her head, even though she knows, logically, it's not the same sword – back on the wall, in the hanger over the mythology section. "I'll be with you in a moment," she says, without turning around, going up on tiptoe, trying to fit the hilt back in the slot. "God damn it—"<p>

Something takes the sword out of her hands the instant before she feels the swirling magic in the room shift, coil around Merlin, and she turns around, the blood fading out of her face, as he lifts it easily and slides it back into its scabbard. Her knees go wobbly, and she nearly falls off of her stepstool before she clears her throat. "Hi."

He looks at her, and says nothing. Morgana winces, and closes her eyes rather than meet his gaze. "What are you doing here?"

His magic recoils slightly in the back of her mind, and she knows she's hurt him. Merlin clears his throat, and steps away from her. "I…came to see how you and Gaius were."

"We're fine."

"Oh." God, she wants to touch him. She wants to reach out and push his bangs back from his forehead to see where the scar must be. She wants to trace the lines in his face and smooth them away with her thumb, because he has too many, he's only eighteen or nineteen, he shouldn't have so many worry creases in his face. She clenches her hands into fists by her sides to fight the impulse. "…good. That's…good."

"How are you?" It slips out before she can stop it. Merlin laughs a bit, and his hand goes automatically to his head. He's wearing a hat; she remembers that they had to shave part of his head to get at the broken bone, and wonders if his hair has grown back in yet.

"Not an ache to be had."

Morgana turns away, closing her eyes, remembering how to breathe. _He's all right_. "That's good."

Silence. After a moment, she says, "Gaius is out right now. If you want to come back—"

"Don't you dare." He says, and she snaps her mouth closed before she can give herself away. "You've been avoiding me, Morgana. Why?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? Because you've been screaming ever since I woke up." Merlin snaps. "You've been terrified. Remember?" He taps the pentacle around his neck. "My only question is if you decided to cut me out of your life, why didn't you break this?"

Her temper rises to match his. "I would never do that and you know it."

"Then why?"

"I didn't want to—"

"Didn't want to _what_? Didn't want to let me know you were all right? Didn't want to remember I existed at all?"

She slaps him. Merlin's head snaps to the side, and he puts a hand up to his cheek, looking at her in shock as she begins to cry. She hasn't cried in months, not since Merlin left in the first place, but now hot tears streak her cheeks, and she's struggling to breathe.

"_I didn't want to hurt you_!" She shouts at him, and outside, a man who looked ready to come into the shop turns and walks away. "For God's sake, you completely idiotic fool, _I didn't want to hurt you again_!"

"Morgana—"

"_I thought you had died_!" Her voice is a shriek, and Merlin simply stares at her in shock as she breaks down. "_I thought you had died, _and what happened was _my fault_, I should have stopped the rocks before they hit you, I should have knocked her out earlier, but I didn't and you were bleeding and _I didn't know what to do_!"

He can't speak. He simply looks at her. Morgana takes a shaking breath, and says, "I can't lose you. I _can't _lose you like that again." She still can't say it. She breathes for a moment, tears burning down her cheek, and then she snaps, "_Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí duit. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat_. I _couldn't lose you again_."

He stays still for a very long moment. Morgana clenches her fists, panting, and finally she looks away from him. Something is boiling in the back of her mind; he's trying to figure out what to say, but there's nothing _to _say, because she's determined. She's not hurting him again. "Merlin—"

A knuckle brushes her jaw. Morgana looks up, and there's something in his eyes that she recognizes, something that she's only seen once or twice before. He bends down, and she leans up, a flower turning to the sun, and his mouth is soft and warm against hers as his hands slide up to her face, cupping her head, holding her gently. She stands very still for a moment, unable to breathe; his eyes are still open, and he's looking at her, waiting for a reaction, and finally he pulls away, and she makes a soft sound in spite of herself.

Neither of them speak. Morgana can only look at him with huge eyes, her mouth hanging open, unable to say anything, and something in Merlin's face cracks; he starts to step back, out of her space, opening his mouth to apologize, and that breaks the spell on her. She steps forward, grabs him by the ears, and pulls his mouth back down to hers, and she can feel him take a sudden breath, as though she's startled him. Then his arms go tight around her, his hands ghosting up over her ribcage, down over her hips, up her back to her shoulder blades, and she can't help it; she unzips his jacket and runs her hands over his chest, tracing every inch that she's been trying to remember in the month since she's seen him, and he's thin, thinner than she thought he would be after a month in and out of the hospital, a month of a mother making sure he ate because that was what mothers did, wasn't it, if their sons had been stuck in the hospital with a head wound they refused to explain. Tentatively, his fingers stroke up her throat, down to her collarbone, and he pulls away from her mouth to kiss the place where her neck and jaw join. Morgana shivers in spite of herself, and draws him back to her mouth; everything is going hot, her hair is sticking to the back of her neck, and she can feel her heart stuttering in her chest –

Footsteps pound down the stairs, and she breaks away from Merlin just as Mordred thumps into the bookshop, and gives her a look that means she hasn't fooled him at all. Behind her, Merlin coughs, and keeps his hand on hers, refusing to let go. Eventually, Mordred snorts, and says aloud, "Welcome back, Emrys."

Merlin clears his throat. "Thank you."

Mordred studies them for a moment longer before snorting, and muttering something that sounded distinctly like "_Finally_" under his breath and heading into the kitchen. Morgana snarls something about bratty children before she finally has the courage to look at Merlin again, who's just looking at her, smiling. He reaches up and brushes a hand over her cheek.

"You're not losing me, Morgana. Not now, not ever. I promise you."

"You can't promise that," she says, even though she feels lighter than she has in week. Merlin laughs a little bit, and leans in, pressing his lips to the very corner of her mouth.

"I don't know. I think it's a good idea, don't you? As long as I don't step in front of any buses—"

"Shut up." She snaps, and kisses him again, the way she's been wanting to ever since he dragged her out from the trees and called her a splendid, magnificent girl. It's nothing she's ever done before, she realizes, and she smiles into the kiss, because it means that Merlin's right.

She has no destiny anymore.

She can choose her own.

They all can.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**:

10,892 words. Final chapter. I've been working on this all day and a lot of yesterday; I would have finished sooner, but I had finals over the last two weeks and I had absolutely no time. :) Sorry for the wait!

Spells/Phrases (Italicized is Old English, bold is Irish/Gaelige.):

**A ghrá:**My dear.

**Dúisigh, mo rí**!_Ic þé bebíede þæt þú ne slæpest_! **Ní mór duit cuimhneamh, agus éist liom!**: Wake, my king! I command you not to sleep! You must remember, and listen!

_Ábeþecian min_ _léof: _Detect my beloved friend.

_Ástrice:_ I strike.

_Wáce ierlic: _Vile angry one.

_Swefe nu: Now send (her) to sleep._

**Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí duit. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat**_**:**_ I'd give you the blood of my heart. My heart is within you.

Thank you to **MKofGod, co2lneedssomezs, hannahlucyy, Jenny, Haley** **Renee**,** Elin Marc, This Is Gallifrey, Sacred3, squirtlemcgee2**, and **Isis Dragon-Heart** for all the reviews, and hopefully the story lived up to your expectations in the final chapter!

**NOTE: **The lyric at the top is borrowed from** The Hunger Games.** It doesn't belong to me, so please don't sue.


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